


Leaving a Mark

by Skalidra



Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Body Modification, Bounty Hunters, Explicit Consent, Hunters & Hunting, M/M, Marking, Sexism, of a sort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-26
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:26:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27205886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skalidra/pseuds/Skalidra
Summary: A long time ago, an omega boy came to Slade's door. Looked him in the eye and tried to negotiate with him, never showing a hint of fear despite every rule of their world saying he should. Slade's impressed enough he agrees to what the boy wants; a pack mark, signifying he's claimed, giving him protection.Now that boy's been brought back to his doorstep. Caught. Slade can't wait to see what he's turned into.
Relationships: Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson
Comments: 99
Kudos: 434
Collections: SladeRobin Week 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to day 2! The prompt is 'After the Bad Guys Win'. There are... many bad guys in this story and you can imagine any or all of them as the winners in this particular instance. It's an omegaverse, post-apocalypse, no-capes AU. Have fun!

Slade doesn't get many visitors. Not to his home, anyway.

His alarm systems pick up the group right as they enter the outskirts of his territory. Four men, two women, all in worn leathers in shades of black and brown, weapons obvious on their backs and slightly less obvious on their hips. Hunters, the lot of them, and Slade might be warier of their intentions but they've got a seventh person with them, bundled roughly into the middle. Hands bound at their back, cloth over their head, stumbling along with them with hands gripping arms and shoving at their back, in turn.

Prey, hm? Well, that's interesting. What kind of prey would bring other hunters into his home territory?

He keeps an eye on his security, watching their progress as he tugs his boots on and collects his rifle. He loads it, pockets a handful of ammo. The pack reaches the fence that surrounds his home, and he heads for the door.

By the time they've approached the door itself, Slade is waiting there. He's got the rifle in his hands, his back to the open side of the door as he watches them move up. This close, he can come to the conclusion that he doesn't know any of them. The gear is clearly hunter-wear, and they've all got the weapons and such to match it. Hunters aren't hard to spot. He knows the ones employed by the local towns, though, and these ones aren't part of them.

Quite a distance they've come, then.

They come to a stop a dozen or so feet away, one of the men — short black hair, his leathers in somewhat better condition than the rest — shifting towards the front of the group, hands open and spread. "Slade Wilson, right?"

"Something I can help you with?" Slade asks, which is as much of an answer as he intends to give. They've brought someone to him, evidently found out where he lives. He's distinctive looking; they've recognized him.

The prey jerks at his voice, pulling his attention for a moment. It's a man, he can see that now. Average height, lean, a sharply angled waist-to-chest, but just enough width in his hips that Slade's inclined to call him as an omega, not an alpha. That would make sense. Hunters rarely cart alphas across larger distances, after all. By the time an alpha's set to be hunted, their punishments have usually already been decided. Omegas, on the other hand, merit more restrained action. Wouldn't do to thin their numbers any further.

The black-haired man lifts a hand towards the other of his group, beckoning the two most obviously holding their prey forward. They bring him forward, push him down to his knees next to the leader, who immediately pins him there with a boot to the back of one calf. A hand loosens the tie of the cloth over his head, and pulls it off in one sharp yank.

"Found this one in our town," the man growls, taking a fistful of the jaw-length, loose black hair of the prey and using it to jerk his head back. "Claimed he was yours. Confirm or deny it and we'll be on our way."

It's been at least a decade, but Slade could never forget that brilliant blue pair of eyes. The jaw's sharper, the hair longer, and my, the boy certainly isn't a _boy_ anymore, but the blatant challenge in Dick Grayson's eyes looks exactly the same as it did when he was sixteen and daring to try to negotiate with Slade like they were on equal footing. Oh, Slade remembers every moment of those weeks Grayson spent with him. Young, but with more steel to his spine than most other men Slade's known in his life, alpha or not.

"Alright. Yes," he confirms, smirk pulling at his lips, "he's mine."

There's a moment of pause. Grayson's teeth show around the cut of the gag between his teeth, just a ramshackle piece of cloth tied tight enough to hurt. Somebody's been making friends.

The hand in Grayson's hair flexes slightly, and pulls his head an inch or so over closer to the leader's hip. "What's his name, then?"

Paranoid, but fair. There are certainly enough alphas in the world that would see a beautiful omega claiming he was theirs, and agree regardless of whether it was true or not. It's probably only Slade's reputation that didn't make these hunters jump straight to the regular method of confirming ownership, demanding they both shed their shirts to compare pack marks and be done with it.

He'll play along for now. "I have no idea what he told you, but his name is Richard Grayson. He goes by Dick."

Considering the looks the hunters trade amongst themselves, that's definitely not what Grayson told them. Which makes sense; from what Slade's heard, keeping track of his investment best he could (without getting involved), Grayson's been doing a lot of things he wouldn't want his real name attached to. Rebellious, dangerous things.

Slade doubts he was caught in the middle of doing anything like that, though. More likely he was simply apprehended for being exactly what he is. An unaccompanied, of-age omega. No alpha guardian, no other pack with them, and presumably whatever false permission Grayson cooked up for himself, these hunters didn't believe it.

They don't believe he's Slade's either. The fingers straying towards weapons make that clear enough.

Slade thumbs the safety off the rifle, and lifts it to be slightly more ready. "You're in my territory, boys and girls. Hands off."

There's a moment of hesitation, more glances, but a reputation like Slade's tends to discourage others from starting fights when they don't need to. The leader makes a small gesture with his free hand, and the rest of the hunters let their hands fall back to their sides. Slade reciprocates the respect by lowering his rifle, though he leaves the safety off for now. They could use the reminder that he's hunted longer than some of them have been alive. His reputation is earned.

"Apologies," the leader says, still clearly on edge. "We'll need confirmation before we surrender him to you. You understand."

Slade nods. "Of course."

He shifts his grip on the rifle to be one handed, and lifts the other hand to the buttons of his shirt. Easy enough to get them loose, bare his chest and show the inked design over his heart. Simpler than some of those in the towns, forced into close proximity and with others they're forced to contrast and compete against, with packs splitting and joining, adding on bits of design or removing details to make their own unique while paying tribute to where they came from. His pack has never been anything but his own family, and he left behind his father's before he ever took that mark onto his skin.

The hunters look, and then the leader of them leans down and gets a hand on the hem of Grayson's shirt, dragging it up to underneath his chin and baring the matching sharp-angled S there. Slade may have been young and stupid when he first chose the design and marked himself, but he doesn't find any fault with his decision these days. Elaborate crests and symbols might look more fanciful, but there's a very base, simple satisfaction to seeing the symbol of his name on Grayson's chest. Black ink, and he knows when the leader runs a thumb over the skin to test it he can feel the rough scar beneath.

( _"I want your mark," the kid says, staring up at him with narrowed, brilliant eyes. "And then I want to leave."_

_Slade leans against the frame of his door and takes the kid in, from head to toe. He crosses his arms, half admiring the guts it takes to come to his home and make a demand like that. "And why would I do that?"_

_And the kid looks him straight in the eye and says, "Because you're intrigued, and I can make it worth your while."_

_Slade can't help the amusement, and the kid's not wrong, he's interested. But not interested enough to agree. Not yet. "Alright. You've got a week to convince me, kid. Come in.")_

The hunter nods, and lets the shirt fall. "Alright." The hand releases Grayson's hair. "Cut him loose," he orders, waving a hand towards the closer hunters.

Slade watches as the gag's pulled from between Grayson's teeth, and the binding around his wrists is untied. He's tugged a bit roughly to his feet, and shoved forward a step. He catches himself, turns and glares at them before Slade cuts it off with a sharp click of his tongue.

"Here, boy."

When he first came to Slade's home, he would have complained that he wasn't a dog and couldn't be ordered around like one, but now he just rubs at his wrists and moves forward. When he's close enough, Slade reaches out and takes his arm, tugging him in to his left side. He leans down just enough to breathe in a small lungful of Grayson's scent. Just as he remembers, sweet and rich, like cinnamon and sugar.

He loops his arm over Grayson's shoulders. A quick glance over him shows reddened, slightly bruised skin at his wrists and the corners of his mouth. Nothing else is immediately apparent, but there's not much skin revealed. "Any of them touch anywhere they shouldn't have?" he asks, low enough to be clear it's for Grayson's ears, loud enough the hunters will hear it too.

They shift uneasily, but none of them try and insist on innocence. It's quite an accusation, to touch an already claimed omega. Castration is common. Death, for those that would rather face an execution than have their bits removed. Slade would be entirely within his rights to take immediate vengeance, too.

Grayson shifts under his arm, looking out at them. "No," he answers, voice deeper than Slade remembers, fallen into its adult tones. "They didn't."

Seems truthful. "Good." He lifts his gaze back to the hunters. "You can go."

"Keep a better eye on him," the leader says, lingering for a moment as the rest of them start to make their way back towards the fence. "He should have a guard if he's that far from you. Anyone could have grabbed him."

Slade doesn't laugh, even though the idea of just anyone grabbing Dick Grayson off the street makes him want to. He can't imagine that Grayson, out on his own for a solid decade, has gotten anything but more dangerous since they met, and he was already plenty skilled when he came to Slade's door.

But before he can say anything, Grayson says, "I had _permission_ ," like it's a point he's already argued. Many times. Mm, now he can see why the gag. "You didn't have to bring me back. I was on an errand."

The hunter barely glances at him. "And you should teach him to watch his mouth. He'd have lost his tongue already if my hunters were less disciplined."

Slade doesn't snarl, but he does let his voice dip closer to a growl. "Then it's good for you that they aren't. If he needs correction, _I'll_ handle it."

Grayson twitches, under his arm. The hunter comes closer to a flinch. Stammers something that isn't quite an apology. Hurries after his friends.

Slade watches until they've all passed out of sight before he lets his arm slide off Grayson's shoulders and steps back. He clicks the safety back onto the rifle and sets to work unloading it, propping the gun back up in its rack by the door and the ammo in the drawer of the small table below it. It's not his favorite gun, but it does well enough for unexpected visitors.

Grayson watches him do it, arms crossed now that there's no audience, back straight and his eyes narrowed. "Slade."

He closes the drawer. "Grayson. Been a long time."

"Yeah."

Grayson is still under his gaze, when he looks back. Doesn't swallow, doesn't shy from him like most do. No, Grayson never did. He was wary, at the most, but he was never afraid. Not of pain, not of the potential of Slade marking and keeping him instead of letting him leave. For some reason, not once did Grayson ever even seem to think that he would break his word, or claim the ownership that every law says he could have.

It was impressive. Slade isn't impressed by people, usually, but the kid managed with flying colors.

_("You're sure about this, kid?" Slade asks, one last time._

_Grayson nods. "Do it," he demands, fingers curling into the sheets under him._

_Slade fits the belt between the kid's teeth, and reaches for the blade. "Bite down.")_

Slade settles back where he was to start with, leaning his back into the frame of the door and looking the kid up and down. "Take it since they weren't coming for me, you didn't get caught doing something?"

Grayson frowns a little, glancing out towards his fence. "No. I was scouting something out, they found me passing through town and refused to believe my permission was real. Just bad luck."

"Faked my signature?" Slade questions.

"Faked your seal."

"Let me see."

Grayson pauses for a moment, then moves closer to him, reaching into his jacket and pulling out a rectangular, folded paper. He hands it over and Slade unfolds it, taking a look at the whole thing. Pretty standard wording, a bit clipped on the speech patterns, but Slade admits it looks quite similar to what he might write himself. Anyone that actually knows him would expect the clipped sentences. Seal at the bottom is a little cracked, probably from the travel, but it's in the same orange wax he uses, and the seal pressed to the center matches the pack mark.

Handwriting doesn't particularly look like his, of course, and an added signature would help. But plenty of people have other members of their pack write things like this, then fill in the details themselves. Besides, not many people know what his handwriting should look like; it's only his signature in records. It's a very passable imitation.

"Not bad," he grants, handing it back. "Signature would make it better."

"Not if anyone wanted to compare it," Grayson argues. "I didn't have a sample to copy off of."

Fair. "Hasn't been a problem before, I take it?"

Grayson tucks it back away. "Not since I made it."

Probably had more to do with the fact that Grayson's pretty and was on his own, rather than them seeing any problem with the faked permission. Pretty omegas on their own draw attention; presumably Grayson's good at avoiding it, but everyone's luck runs out on occasion. A decade's worth of luck isn't a bad streak.

Slade crosses his arms. "It's well done."

Grayson narrows his eyes a little, watching him. "Would it have fooled you?"

"I wouldn't have trusted any omega that looked like you, kid. If I didn't have a reason to hunt you, though? Would have depended on what you said." He leans forward a bit. "But that would be whether I felt like dealing with it, not whether I thought you were a liar."

Grayson leans in too, taking a step forward and putting them close enough they could easily be hands-on, if either of them wanted to be. "That's not an answer."

He huffs out a laugh. Grayson's not wrong. He didn't technically answer the question. "Maybe. I would have asked why there wasn't a signature. If you had a good answer, then I'd have let it go. But I still wouldn't have trusted _you_ , kid. Not without someone accompanying you."

"Why not?"

Slade lifts a hand, and Grayson doesn't move as he cups the back of his neck, holding him close. "Omegas as beautiful as you are _never_ out on their own. You're too valuable, and there are too many people that want you. Any alpha that left someone like you alone would be asking to lose you."

Grayson inhales, slowly. "Seems like most people don't know that."

"Most people are idiots." He tilts his head, studies Grayson's expression. "Do you remember our deal?"

_("You stay a week or so afterwards," Slade says, looking down at the kid, sweating and a little bloody from their spar. "You heal enough to let me layer the tattoo over, and then you can go. Do whatever you want to do, I don't care."_

_He leans down, takes the kid's chin in hand and holds him, making sure Grayson's looking right at him._

_"But if you're ever stupid enough to get brought back to me, you're mine. That's my price, kid. Deal?"_

_Grayson gets to his feet instead of answering. Wipes the blood out from under his nose and stands tall. "Deal.")_

"I remember."

There's anticipation, but no fear. No anger.

Slade looks for a few moments more, and then leans down and pulls Grayson into a kiss. He was cute at sixteen, but he's gorgeous now, lean and muscled, sharp jaw and attractive mouth. He finds that waist with his other hand, wrapping his arm around it to drag Grayson closer. Hands press against his chest, nails scraping lightly over his skin as Grayson presses up against him, mouth parting under the nip of his teeth to a lip.

As much as Slade devours, Grayson meets him. Hot and passionate, reaching up to grab at his neck and pull him down just as much as he's pulling Grayson up. He's had his imagination, over the years, but none of it compares to having the kid in his hands, feeling the skin under his hands and all but tasting that scent on his tongue.

He can't help the rumble, low and attracted, and Grayson gives a soft groan in response, hips pressing forward into his thigh.

There's a part of him that wants to drag Grayson inside and get him pinned down on his bed. See and touch and taste everything that's his, and find out exactly what the boy he claimed as his pack has become. Keep him, _have_ him.

Instead he pulls back just enough to break the kiss, tilting his head down and scenting the kid. Slow and thorough, spreading their scents together till no one that comes anywhere near the kid will be able to doubt that he's claimed.

He pulls his head up and lets go.

"Go on, Grayson. Get out of here."

Grayson blinks up at him. "What? But I… You said if I was brought back here, I'd be yours."

"You _are_ mine." Slade lifts his hand, tracing the edge of Grayson's jaw with a soft rumble of appreciation. "And I'll have you. _My_ way." He meets Grayson's gaze, pushes him back a step. "One day, kid. Then I'm coming after you."

There's a thick swallow. Understanding sparks in Grayson's eyes. "You're going to hunt me."

He studies those eyes for wariness, but all there is is a heating anticipation. Good. "I don't like having what I want handed to me," he says, close enough to the truth to be real. "Run for me, kid. Show me what you've learned."

Grayson shifts his weight. Clenches his hands, and releases them. "One day?"

"One day," Slade confirms.

The anticipation in Grayson's eyes hardens to a solid determination. "Then I've got time."

Grayson grabs him by the still-open sides of his shirt and drags him down, and Slade doesn't say a word of complaint.

* * *

When Slade wakes in the morning it's to a long-cold bed. His rifle's gone from the front door, as well as a good collection of assorted gear from his stores, a pack, various supplies, and his horse. Everything Grayson needs to travel fast and far, and over any terrain he wants. None of it trackable. (The few things he had trackers for are carefully set aside, in fact.)

Slade grins, laughs to himself, and starts putting together his own collection of supplies.

Clever kid.

They'll see how far it takes him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back! There's this and then one more chapter for the end. Enjoy!

"I'm looking for someone. Roughly jaw-length black hair last I saw him, blue eyes. Handsome. Likely had a leather jacket and a rifle, and might have come in on a big black horse."

The gateman squints up at him, a flick of his gaze taking in Slade's size, the trademark black and brown leathers, and the hint of silver at his belt that gives proof to his profession. He swallows, thickly. Nods.

"Yeah, saw someone like that come in last night. Late."

_Last night._

The constant, low burn of anticipation locked back behind his ribs flares, slightly. A month and a half he's been chasing this boy. Maybe five hours of time on him and he'd managed to _vanish_. Always a town ahead, doubling back and cutting sharp angles in his routes, forcing Slade to be constantly double-checking what he was following, constantly recalculating to figure out where he'd gone this time.

Dick Grayson is a menace. Skilled, practiced at losing pursuers, drawing no more attention than he needs to, anticipating where Slade will ask for him and refusing to leave him any true hints of direction. The only thing he hasn't done is get rid of Slade's horse and rifle, but then, the theft or purchase of horses is easy to track. Maybe he thought he was best served on the fastest, sturdiest beast he could have, even if it is recognizable.

 _Last night_.

Dawn's barely broken. If Grayson came in late last night, he might still be here an hour or two more. Longer, if he's in need of any supplies, but that's been near impossible for Slade to grasp any hint of.

"Do you know where he went?" he asks, shutting down any hint of anticipation in his tone.

The gateman nods again. "Only one inn here; Nathan's Nest, right at the town center. Can't miss it if you head in. He asked where he could stay for the night, sounded exhausted."

Then it's likely he'll still be there.

Slade inclines his head a touch. "Appreciated. I'll remember the help."

He could tip for the information, but so many people are satisfied with just the potential of a hunter stooping to assist them, someday. Nevermind most of them will never have a need, and even fewer will have any idea where to find him to ask, if they do. Doesn't stop them craving it.

Sure enough, he leads his new horse to the center of town and there it is. An inn, right at 'town square,' though the open area is a lot more like an oddly angled trapezoid than any sort of real square. There's a stables to the side of the main building, and he skirts the edges of the square as he heads there, putting his horse between him and any sight line from the higher windows of the inn. No commotion, no excitement, no suddenly-vanishing faces looking down at him. Good.

There's no one in the stable but him, and it's easy enough to guide his new horse into a stall — pulling everything he might need for the fight that's about to happen from her saddlebags — and then take a stroll down the rest of the stalls.

There he is.

Ikon snorts at seeing him, stepping up to butt eagerly against the open palm of his hand. He chuckles and obliges, scratching over his head and patting a neck as he takes a look over what the angle of the stall lets him see. Not a scratch, not a mark. Mostly clean fur, minus a bit of dirt at the lower legs. No tangles in the mane or the tail. Weight looks fine. Kid's been taking good care of his horse.

"Good boy," he murmurs. "I've got to go collect something. I'll be back."

He steps back, and takes a moment to grab a short length of fabric from inside his coat and tie a simple, tight knot around the handle of the stall. Easy enough to cut, but it'll slow the kid down a few seconds if he gets out this far. Not that Slade has any intention of letting him run. That ends here.

He strides up to the inn, pushing the door open to step into the interior. It's early, so it's mostly deserted. A couple men here and there eating breakfast. One couple sitting close, looking tired but all dressed to leave, pushing food in their mouths with a mechanical lack of grace. No sign of his boy. Across the room, closer towards the bar that clearly functions as food and service and room renting simultaneously, is a woman clearing a few dishes off a table, maybe a few years younger than people generally assume him to be. Two plates, two cups. Not his boy either, unless he had a breakfast companion.

If there's an actual 'Nathan' involved in any of this, he's not around.

The woman looks up as he approaches, and stills. He tilts his head, keeps his voice low to repeat, "Looking for a man. Black hair, blue eyes. Handsome. Your watch at the gate said he probably came here last night."

She nods. Glances back towards a set of stairs, flattened against the back wall. "Yes, sir. I can get you the key for his room…?"

"I'll keep any collateral damage to a minimum," he promises. False reassurance, as if he can prevent it if Grayson puts up a fight.

He does hope Grayson puts up a fight.

She fetches him a key from behind the door. Evidently a spare, since it has the number printed on the top of it. Two-twenty-nine, and she adds a, "Second floor, to the right," to that piece of information.

He gives her the same practiced inclination of his head that he gave the gateman, and heads for the stairs. Up, to the right as per directions, past closed wooden doors with the numbers neatly painted on the fronts. He softens his step, shifts into a slow stalk as he gets closer. Fifteen, twenty-two, twenty-seven… Twenty-nine. There he is.

There's no peephole or anything similar in the door, so he's free to press his ear to the wood, leaning in from the side to avoid casting any shadow beneath it. There are footsteps. Booted ones, moving in irregular pieces of motion, like someone's stepping about the room from one thing to another. Grayson's getting ready to head out, seems like. What excellent timing.

Carefully, he slides the key into the lock. Listens for any sudden change in the sounds of movement as he turns it, fraction by fraction. The lock clicks open with a very dull thump of metal. He pockets the key.

Slade waits a moment, listening for any change that might suggest that Grayson noticed. Nothing. He shifts back, takes a breath, and _slams_ inside.

The same black leather jacket Grayson had on last time he saw him, unruly, curly black hair down to a strong jaw, wide blue-green eyes that quickly narrow, teeth pulling into a snarl.

Slade crashes into the kid, slams him through the table he was packing stuff on and into the floor, putting him on his back with a breathless sound of pain, his hands grabbing Slade's arms in turn and immediately trying to wrestle him to the side. Heavily muscled thighs grip his waist and roll them both, broad shoulders providing weight and power as the kid tries to get an arm across his throat.

One sharp blow to his ribs folds him to the side, and Slade yanks him in and down to crack his head into Slade's shoulder to get a gasp and squeezed shut eyes for one critical moment.

Twist the arm trying to press over his neck, roll him to the floor, gather both hands at the small of the kid's back and pin him to the wood, face down. Weight over the back of his thighs, other hand wrapping into the curly hair to drag his head to the side, make him look up with one sea-colored, glaring eye. Alpha scent, woodsmoke and earth, is strong in the air.

"Clever," he growls, ignoring the jerking struggles against his grip. "Same general looks. Alpha, so no one pays too much attention to you. Swap the jacket, give you my weapon, my horse… It's cute." The kid pinned under him grins, wild and rough and very much not Dick Grayson. "Where is he?"

His voice is a little deeper. Got a bit of a rasp to the depths of it, like the kid's breathed in too much smoke over his lifetime. He's younger, though, at least by a few years. Barely more than a pup. "No idea. You think I could keep track of him and outrun you at the same time, old man?"

"No." He leans closer, flashes his teeth right in the kid's face. "But you know where he was going to go. Tell me."

The kid's got the nerve to grin, right in his face. " _No_ idea. He didn't tell me, I didn't ask. Good luck with that, though."

Compartmentalization. What this kid doesn't know, Slade can't make him tell, and Grayson… (Slade breathes in, his grip tightening.) Grayson is _good_. He'd know Slade would catch his lookalike, eventually. He wouldn't share any information that might lead back to wherever he is. Maybe he knew where the kid was going to go, to avoid the same routes they'd take, but anything more would just be a weakness. At best, this kid knows some meeting place somewhere that they might come back to. Someday.

Someday isn't going to cut it.

"When did you swap out?"

"You mean how long have you been chasing me instead of him?" A flash of teeth, one hard jerk against the grip on his arms. "Since the start. Two days in. You never had his trail at all, old man."

Slade growls before he can contain it, but the kid doesn't flinch. He should. Slade isn't known for his mercy, or his gentle touch. He's killed hundreds. Hunted hundreds more. He's made a name for himself in every way he's wanted to. He knows how to kill, how to punish, how to extract anything he needs or wants, from anyone he chooses. He could flay this kid alive for choosing to stand against him. He might even enjoy it. (Some of it, anyway. And he'd do the rest to finish the job, like he always does.)

"Careful how you speak to me, boy," he warns, tightening his grip to press bruises into the kid's muscled arms, draw forth a quiet grunt. "Assisting a runaway omega is a criminal offense. I could hang you in the square if I wanted to. I could take the cost of my time out of your back."

"Yeah," the kid grunts, "but you won't."

He sounds so sure of himself.

"And why do you think that, kid?"

The kid tilts his head to look back at him, over his twisted shoulder. Flashes those teeth again. "Dick would never forgive you."

Slade's eye narrows. There's a part of him that wants to immediately prove the kid wrong. Twist one of his arms and watch it snap. Make him scream. But he doesn't. He shuts the urge away, because as much as he may dislike it, the kid has a point. If Grayson knows this man well enough to trust him to lead Slade on a chase, then he knows him well enough to be annoyed if Slade hurt him. Furious, if Slade did anything that would cripple the kid, or really make him pay. There's no point catching Grayson if he alienates him in the process; he'd be gone again in a day, and Slade doesn't feel like trying to keep someone like Grayson locked in his basement for the rest of his life.

Grayson's not meant to be contained. He'd wither in a cage, no matter how pretty.

Alright, so the annoying little bastard is right. No injuries. But that doesn't mean he can't do _anything_.

"We'll see."

The kid starts to fight again when Slade cuffs his wrists, pulling him to his feet and across the room, till he can toss him over the foot of the bed. He's got some decent skill to him, judging by the way he kicks and tosses his weight about, but Slade's been doing this longer than this kid's been alive. Easy enough to tie his legs, gag him, yank his pants down to his thighs, and crack six hard blows of his hand into the kid's backside before he can muster up more than a shocked noise of protest.

Enough to bruise. Enough to get him an embarrassed flush and a strangled mess of muffled syllables that sounds like swearing.

"Hush," he reprimands, pinning the kid down with the spread of his hand over his low back. "If you're going to challenge me like some arrogant pup, I'm going to treat you like one."

Another six, and then one more particularly hard one that makes the kid jerk hard against the mattress, yelping through the gag.

"That's two for every week you made me chase you," Slade tells him, as he settles the kid's clothing back in place, "and one for the back talk. You pull this stunt again, I'll pull out a belt, kid."

The kid glares at him with one narrowed, faintly wet eye.

"Glad we understand each other."

Slade hefts the kid over his shoulder and heads downstairs.

The wide-eyed older woman points him in the direction of their jail with just one glance at the kid, and nobody in the room does anything but watch as he carries the kid out and across town.

The woman manning the desk there, big and probably as tall as him, with thick red hair and bared arms, greets him with a nod and a low, "Hunter."

He mirrors the respect. "Cells?"

She grabs a set of keys and leads him a room over, to where there's a couple relatively small cells with floor-to-ceiling bars for their fronts. Empty. He dumps the kid in one, untying the rope around his legs before he drags him up and pins his back to the bars, so he can do the rest from outside. The woman locks it as he reclaims his cuffs, too, and then scruffs the kid to make him stay still as he gets the gag free.

"Pup needs a few days to cool down," he tells the woman, as the kid snarls back at him. "Hold him for a bit, then let him go."

"Can do." She takes a look at the kid as Slade lets him go, an eyebrow rising. "What's his name?"

Slade looks to the kid, watching him rub at his wrists, teeth bared. "Well?"

"Jason," is the grudging answer. Probably grudging enough that it's actually the truth.

"Well, _Jason_ , I'll be taking _my_ horse with me. There's a bay mare in the stables that you can take when you leave. Your things will be with her. Don't cross paths with me again."

"Don't bet on it, old man." Accompanied by a snarl, gaze locked right on his.

Slade snorts. "Like I said," he aims at the woman. "Pup doesn't know what's good for him."

He walks out with the kid swearing at his back, heading back towards the inn. Comb through the kid's stuff, make sure the inn takes care of his replacement horse till they set the kid free, and he can be on his way. Start retracing everything to find where Grayson might have gone, talk to a few contacts in various towns, see what they might be able to tell him. It's a long ride back, and he's got no way of knowing what Grayson might have done in the damn month and a half he's been chasing this kid around.

Or maybe…

Would Grayson have the balls to…?

Slade snarls quietly to himself, and picks up his pace.

Of course he would. Grayson doesn't fear a damn thing.

* * *

Two months. Two _goddamn months_ , Grayson's been living in his house.

Clever, underhanded, little bastard. The kid's been here the whole time, feeding off his stores, sleeping in his bed. The whole place smells of him. His security system's been taken apart, rewired, the whole thing reset to different codes. The only reason it doesn't take him an hour to get into the place is because he knows all his own backdoors.

The kid didn't. Grayson took two days to meet up with his little pal, then crept his way back here and got in. Let him chase his lookalike all over the place for a _month and a half_ while he stayed here in comfort.

(Clever. _Damn_ clever. Grayson actually got the better of him. That's… impressive.)

Slade stares at the near-empty shelves in his larder, hands flexing on his arms, crossed over his chest. He'll have to restock. He's got a lot of hunting ahead of him, for starters; apparently the kid likes meat, because nearly all of his is gone, salted or dried or anything else. Interestingly, his garden has been well tended. Dishes have been washed and put away, bed has been made. Apart from the pillaging of his supplies, his home has been taken care of.

And apart from the fact that he can smell _exactly_ what Grayson was doing, sleeping in his bed. It's… infuriating. Among other things.

He's only been gone a couple days, if that, judging by the scent and the lack of dust. No horse this time, and there's no more of Slade's weaponry missing than there was the first time. He hasn't gotten far, whatever direction he chose to go. Especially not if he's taken the time to be careful and obscure any tracks. It's just a matter of figuring out which direction he went, at this point.

So the hunt starts again. Now he has the time to pull an image of Grayson's face, though, and make sure that when people tell him of a 'handsome, black-haired, blue-eyed man,' they're pointing him towards the right one. This time, he can make sure he isn't chasing false leads.

Slade breathes in slowly, shuts his eye and allows himself a soft laugh, here where no one else will hear. The kid… tricked him. It's been a long, long time since Slade chased anyone that managed that. Some were difficult, some were dangerous, but he's always been a step above them. He's the best hunter out there; he's the one that others fear, that gets called when no one else has succeeded. He's _good_ at this.

A real challenge… He's actually looking forward to it. He… _wants_ it. Wants to track Grayson, hunt him, get the better of his marked omega and have him be _his_ , finally.

Slade will catch him. He always catches his prey, it's just a matter of when.

(He hopes Grayson puts up one hell of a fight.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [You can find my Tumblr here!](http://skalidra.tumblr.com/)

**Author's Note:**

> [You can find my Tumblr here!](http://skalidra.tumblr.com/)


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